


We're Fucked Up, but We're Not the Same

by airspaniel



Category: American Idiot - Green Day/Armstrong
Genre: Drugs, M/M, Masturbation, alter ego
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-10
Updated: 2011-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-14 15:38:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/150825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airspaniel/pseuds/airspaniel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>No point in playing chicken when you've already crashed the cars; and me and Jimmy, we're a demolition derby.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	We're Fucked Up, but We're Not the Same

**Author's Note:**

> So [](http://zekejojo.livejournal.com/profile)[**zekejojo**](http://zekejojo.livejournal.com/) sez to me, she sez, "Can you ship someone and their alter-ego?"
> 
> Can I _hell._
> 
> So this is her fault, as well as the fault of Billie Joe's mad improv skills, and all the _Fight Club_ fic I never actually wrote down. Which is to say, what is this, I don't even.

Sometimes, I think Saint Jimmy isn't real.

He can't be real; he doesn’t feel _real_ , he’s a force of fucking nature, and you've just gotta give yourself up to it or be swept away. He'll sweep you away anyway, but you go with it, and it'll be a ride you'll never forget. One you'll never _want_ to forget, never want to get off, just keep going around and around and drowning in it.

I know I'm drowning, but it's getting harder and harder to give a shit.

And Jimmy's not real. Maybe he's a fucked up Fight Club figment of my subconscious, some kind of amalgam of the excitement I always lusted after and the approval I never got and the love I never knew I wanted.

Dear Mom, I might be going crazy. It's all right, though. So is everybody else.

 _This is your life, and it's ending one minute at a time._ Even sounds like something he would say.

"You're thinking again," Jimmy complains, hooking his chin over my shoulder. Speak of the devil, and he pouts in your fucking face. "I hate it when you do that."

"No, you don't,” I tell him. “You hate it when I think about things you don't want me to think about. Don't think I don't notice."

The corner of his mouth lifts like he thinks I’m funny; his eyes are sparkling and dark. "And what things are you thinking I don't want you to think about, do you think?"

"Fuck you," I say, shrugging him off, and he just laughs. Just twists himself tighter into my space until he's practically breathing into my mouth.

"See, _that_ I like," he grins, tilting his head like he's gonna kiss me, which would really be more of a threat if he hadn't done it already. No point in playing chicken when you've already crashed the cars; and me and Jimmy, we're a demolition derby.

So what if I flinched first? If he’s not real, then it really doesn’t matter. If he is, well, who the fuck cares?

I'm thinking along his lines now, he can see it in my eyes even if he doesn’t just _know_ ; and if there's one thing Jimmy believes in, it's positive reinforcement.

If there are two things, then the other is instant gratification.

"Think smarter, not harder, dear Johnny," he smiles and what little space between us is gone, and his tongue is thick and wet in my mouth and really? I'm not half as disturbed as I should be. He's nothing like a girl, and right, _probably not real_ ; but he knows what I want and he knows what I need and he gives it to me. That's what got us here in the first place.

He tastes like stale cigarettes and weed and whiskey, and better than anything I could ever imagine.

"You're deranged," I tell him, breaking away, and he bites my neck for it; licks over the teethmarks he leaves behind and pushes me back against the windowsill. My wifebeater gets shoved up my stomach, his cracked black nail polish against my bitch-white skin, and he's pale, too, but he glows with it. Beautiful, with his smudged eyeliner and sharp teeth. Like a real angel.

No way in hell I'm saying that out loud. "You're unhinged," I say instead, and he looks up at me from where he's kneeling now like it doesn't even matter what I say; doesn't even matter what I think because he knows it all. Like he can hear it all, even the parts that contradict the other parts, and maybe he likes those parts best.

He grins with his teeth around my zipper, pulls it down, and this is fucked up. _I’m_ fucked up. Fucked up like you would not _believe_.

“You don’t know the half of it,” he agrees, and I know he’s talking about the shit I didn’t say. “But you love it.”

“You’re not real,” I gasp, and I’m pretty sure I didn’t mean to say it, but it happened. Jimmy flicks his tongue over his lips, leaves them slick and shiny. Keeps them open.

“I know you are,” he taunts, “but what am I?” Then his sharp teeth are right on my hipbone, and he’s leaving the shape of his wet lips against my skin. I kind of wish I could keep the mark, but he’s already moving, kissing my hand, my wrist, the little puncture bruises up my forearm and the inside of my elbow and he lingers on them, poking his tongue into every one of them till I can feel the ache. I don’t know why that turns me on so hard.

Jimmy knows. He stands up slow, rubbing up on me like a cat, or a snake, and he slides his hand into my underwear. I didn’t shower today. Or yesterday. Jimmy doesn’t care because I don’t care. Or maybe that’s the other way around. I close my eyes so I don’t have to think about it.

He laughs, because he knows. “What am I?” he repeats, soft and rhetorical.

He doesn’t want me to answer that. He wants me to _let go_. And I’m gonna, I’m close, a force of fucking _nature_ , like I said; and Jimmy…

Stops.

“I am Jack’s smirking revenge,” he says to me, the beautiful bastard. He kisses my forehead, and I can’t open my eyes. “Don’t think,” he says. “Just do.”

I wake up with my dick in my hand, and I don't even remember falling asleep. A lot of my mornings start like this. Used to be I’d finish the job, throw some jeans on and head to Will’s. Beer for breakfast at two in the afternoon. Then Tunny’d come by and…

Man. That’s a boner killer for sure.

 _Dear Mom_ , I think, _I want to come home._ But I _can’t_ , because it doesn’t fucking exist anymore.

And speaking of things that don’t exist…

I reach for the kit on the side of the bed, look at my fucked-up arm like it holds the secrets of the universe. Maybe it does.

 _Don’t think, just do._

So here we go.


End file.
